Fugitive
by jsn17
Summary: Is he a killer? Vengeance pushes his mind into further darkness. His actions haunt him. The police are hot on his heels, an old enemy draws near, and the Winchester Family is disappearing before his very eyes. This could be the end for Dean Winchester.
1. The Man Who Falls

**Author's Note: **_I do not own the characters of Dean, Sam or John Winchester, as they are the property of Eric Kripke. I do, however, own all of the other characters, therefore making them solely my property. Anyway, enough with the technical rubbish._

**Summary: **_Dean Winchester is a wanted man. The exploits of the shape-shifter in _Skin _made him a fugitive, as well as dead to the world. In _The Benders _a police officer discovered his identity, but promised to keep it a secret. However, in _Devil's Trap _Dean was seen by many eye witnesses shooting an apparently innocent man in the head. He is thought to be dangerous, a criminal of the highest and most psychotic order. With the help of his father and his brother, Dean must evade not only the numerous police tracking him, but also something else, something far worse that has a dark history with the Winchester son and wants revenge._

Fugitive 

**By _Jonathan Newman_**

**Chapter One**

He watched secretly from the dark alley. Leaning against the rough, damp wall, he took a long, satisfied suck at the smoky air surrounding him. From his hand the cigarette burned menacingly, its fiery glow igniting his rough but still concealed features. He was a shadow, a dark and frightening apparition, looming up against the night sky.

The night was cold, cloudy, and misty. No light was present on the street but the occasional glimmer from the moon as it attempted to cleanse the ground. In battle with the light, the shadows were victorious, its oily claws erasing hope, peace, and those last vestiges of solitude. When the moonlight snaked across a waiting grid, the metallic structure spat out filthy, warped images on the walls. They were perversions, swastikas, so strange but also, not out of place. Dancing from place to place, these images floated steadily, corrupting all they touched. A sense of evil lingered in the foul air.

One image caught the figures brooding face, like the exposed wings of a gliding bat, igniting it momentarily. A flash of menace was present in those dark, murky eyes. They looked into darkness, and the darkness dared not look back. Rough, coarse, blade like bristles flickered over his neck, slicing his throat and then retreating up onto his face. No more could be seen, the light passed away, leaping terrified, and cladding the figure once more in total shadow.

From the alley his soulless eyes studied the entrance across the street. The warehouse was not overly large, but it still had the capacity for what he feared. An average sized square building, it loomed up like a great beast against the harsh night sky. Its solid steel doors twinkled mockingly at any that approached. But none did. Very few ventured to this side of the neighbourhood anymore. It was whispered by the very brave that people around there dealt in black magic and death. They were not the people one wished to anger.

Boring into the solid building, the hungry eyes sent messages back to the brain. The man smiled asmug but sinister smile. He could sense the evil at work within the warehouse, and he knew how to stop it. A moment to prove oneself, to show everyone up, he thought. The slight breeze was flicking his dark mane of hair over his eyes, hindering his vision, clouding his vision. Impatiently he swept the hairs aside and continued his surveillance.

Within the man's mind, his orders circulated again and again. Billowing around his shins, his long, dark ovecoat was caught in the wind and flowed. For a second it was as if he had spread his wings and become a true creature of the night, capable of swooping down upon his enemies and picking them off at will. He smiled at the thought. If only it were that easy..

Once more he exhaled long and hard on his cigarette. Its glow was fading. It was almost time. He flicked the smouldering ashes into the air. Some caught the wind and were carried away silently, others settled on the ground. With his boot, the man ground them out, extinguishing the last vestiges of light in the alley. A cloud had drifted in front of the moon. Now, all that remained was total, unrelenting, unforgiving, darkness. It painted the streets black and filled the air with a great sense of foreboding and danger. Only the night possessed this power, all other things lacked the power. The man respected the shadows for their stealth, for their power, for their ability to manipulate human life. They drew evil to them, those in need of solitude, searching for somewhere to hide, a place where the rest of the world no longer acknowledged them. For a time, the shadows could provide a person with peace. Until, however, the darkness takes them whole and destroys them from within.

His warmth lost, the man stood up straight, his full height pressed against the night sky. With a sickly snap he massaged his neck before moving forwards. Slowly, but purposefully, he made his way towards the warehouse. His steps created eerie echoes, which circulated menacingly around the street. The breeze caught his coat, and the bat stalked forward.

Without even attempting to open the doors, he knew they were solid, the man pulled himself up onto the first rung of the ladder hanging next to it. The metal was harsh and cold against his skin. Ignoring his discomfor, he began to climb. Tiny sounds of boot upon leather resounded serenely, making his head feel light. He hated it when he wasn't silent, it destroyed everything. Noise was so unneccessary.

Reaching the roof, the man strode across the brittle tiling searching for and entrance. Ah, he thought upon seeing a small hatch, perfect!

Hours later the dark and bloody figure emerged from the warehouse and staggered through the streets. One hand was clasped over his wounded shoulder, the other held out in front of him. He had yet again been arrogant and let his guard down. It had cost him. But not for long. How long...?

Dazedly, almost semi-conscious, the man blinked through the night until his eyes began to adjust. The night was of little hinderance to his vision. He was limping, but only slightly, as he drifted back down the dark alley from where he had first emerged. A steady mist rose like clouds around him, dropping a thin, smoky veil about his person. Steadily he grew less visible, his dark shadow, complete with swishing coat like wings, fading into the fog. And then, like a bat who had drifted in from the shadows to hunt, the darkness took him, and he was gone. Dean Winchester fled into the night.


	2. Redemption

The dimly lit, mahogany office was awash with the steady flicker of the half a dozen candles hanging like tiny sentries against the walls. Predominantly bare, the room dit little to catch the eye, with the most striking feature being an archaic bookcase at the rear lined with masses of wrinkled books with extravagant, occult titles. In the centre of the room there stood a finely crafted oak desk cluttered with scatterings of parchment and a rusty telephone. It was at this desk that an old man was seated, scribbling furiously with a scratchy pen, emitting the occasional sigh or tut. His hair was dark and greyed in some areas, receeding slightly, but very tidy. He stroked his crinkled, pale face, his fingers lingering on his small beard that jutted out from around his mouth. Pale blue eyes stared into nothingness.

He was in deep thought. A problem was lingering in his mind like a thorn. There was only so much a man of his age could allow. Standing, he rose to his full six feet and straightened out his dark suit jacket, under which lay a turtle neck jumper for added warmth. Occasionally his curious eyes would flick over to the tiny window to the left, where the moon smiled in like a kindly god, its soft glow providing much needed radiance. But there was something else out in the dark night tonight, something dangerous, but the old man was not afraid. Far from it.

A bang sounded behind him, and he span in time to see his door slowly glide open and a dark silouhette cast its eerie shadow over him. The old man stared warily at the figure until, with a tap of boot on wood, it stepped forward into the light and the faced of ahardened and grizzly man was revealed. Neither man smiled. Their eyes met and casually observed. The newcomer was hunched slightly, and from his dark coat's right sleeve, a slow trickle of scarlet dripped onto the polished floor. He was grimacing, the old man noticed, but trying very hard not to, and his face was even more pale than usual. The moonlight made the younger man's dark eyes sparkle with menace. He hobbled into the room. The door blew shut behind him.

The old man stepped up and scrutinized his visitor with a look of great interest.

"You are injured," he stated bluntly.

The man glanced at the gash on his shoulder and the blood trickling from his coat, and looked back up with no visible change in his appearance.

"Yes," he answered in a deep drawl.

"Do you need assistance?" asked the old man.

The man shook his head. "No".

_Try to calm down, mate_, the old man thought sarcastically. "Are you not in pain?"

"No".

Before the old man could ask his next question, his visitor dug deep into his coat pocket and pulled out with his bloody hand a similarly bloody wooden stick of some sort. It had a point but it was now battered and blunt, splintered like broken glass. He placed the object down on the nearby desk. A crimson ring formed around it. The old man stared at the object momentarily before returning his gaze to its previous owner.

"It is done then?" he asked keenly.

The dark figure nodded. "Yes".

Smiling the old man nodded warmly at his guest. "Well done. Yes, very well done".

"I will need a fresh one," the man said, indicating the wooden object lying on the desk.

"Of course"

The old man stopped short as the figure before him finally succumbed to his wound and tipped forward. He was caught and levered carefully into the seat before the desk, where his sad eyes stared onwards. Were those tears sparkling so? The old man pulled off the visitor's overcoat and began examining the wound. It was a deep cut just past the collar bone and a losing a lot o blood. The victim did not even flinch as the old man removed a sharp scalpel from one of the draws and began poking around within the cut. He grunted and pulled out a small piece of metal.

"Silver," he grinned triumphantly. "Must have got stuck in there, sapping your energy".

The man spoke. "It hurts". His voice was dull and monotonous, as though the emotion had been completely taken out of it.

"I know, I know," the old man said. "You heal quickly though".

"Not that," replied the man, shaking his head. "This". He rested his bloody palm against his chest and winced. "I can feel them all".

The old man gazed down sadly upon his patient. "I'm sorry, but you must, must trust me. It will stop. The pain will stop. You know what you have to do".

"I know".

"That's right, Dean".

Carefully, the old man wiped down the wound and laid a bandage across it. _Not that it really matters_, he thought. He pulled the black coat back over the man, who stood tentatively and shuffled fowards.

"Next?" he asked with his usual lack of animation.

"Ah, yes," the old man appeared to remember. He settled himself against his desk and eyed the man warily. "Important, very important this next assignment is".

With those same dark puddles that were his eyes, the man silently surveyed his informer. Not a trace of emotion haunted his soleless features.

The old man continued. "You will need to your usual _careful _self. This next target is _extremely_ dangerous, extremely important and unusual".

The dark man brooded. A sliver of life passed across his face. The face of Dean Winchester. "Tell me..."


	3. Memories

He sat in his room. Alone. That cold, dark, dingy room. Alone. Light penetrated only slightly, like the flash of a distant blade, through the pale curtains. Sunlight was in its element. He stared into the nothingness of his own life through chiselled features. The soft mane of sandy hair hung like moonlight across his head. Eyes like icy water, so cold and empty, looked through the shadows, into a life once lived. The room echoed a thousand memories, all so painful, all so sad. The loneliness of lost souls lingered like sharp knives within the brain. Alone. So alone it felt as though the world would swallow him and still... still... still he felt no sadness in this.

His hands trembled as they ran steadily through his hair, and then across his rough, dark stubble that lined his lower face. Why did he feel so? Was this not what he had always wanted? The words were still there. Always. They were biting away at his mind. He shut his eyes, screwed them shut until the light was gone. Memories. That most painful of human gifts. They were a blessing, but also a curse. They could bring happiness, but also the misery of a million deaths. When one sat and searched long inside, there is always a memory of pain, such pain to elicit a tear from even the sturdiest of men. But sometimes, just sometimes, memories of some people were darker than the wounds of war. A memory could kill. Right now, the brooding man sat at the end of his haunted bed, and remembered.

A knock at his door disturbed him. He rose like a plant, tall and rugged, his linen shirt hanging loosely across his denim jeans, and those boots... they tapped against his wooden floor like drums; cowboy style boots they were, wild like his heart. Trapped in a memory.

In the bed, concealed beneath the crimson covers, a naked female torso stirred. The man gave her not a seconds glance. _She had her moments_, he thought grimly.

His hand paused momentarily on the doorknob. He listened for the sounds of life outside, and heard the soft breathing. Familiar. Glancing through the peep hole, an old friend gazed back at him. His jaw contorted viciously and he swiftly ripped off the latch and tore the door open.

"Dean –"

Before the visitor could even take a second breath, the man had leapt forwards, wrapped his hands around the scruff of the neck and dragged him inside, slamming the door behind him. He through the 'guest' hard against the wall. The man was short but extremely slender, with receeding dark hair, gaunt features, and small, green eyes. His obviously cheap suit was torn in some places and as ruffled as feathers. He gasped as he was greeted with firm hands around his spindly throat.

He struggled to speak. "Wait... I... what?

"What the hell are ye doin' here?" the man roared angrily in his face.

Gasp. "Dean, it's me...please...christ! ... leggo!"

The man knocked his knuckles against the wall in frustration and let his visitor go. He backed away, seething. "What do you want, Clive?"

Smoothing out the creases in his brown suit, the man named Clive answered rashly. "Just visitin', Dean, like good friends do. I assume fellas from Texas 'ave mates. Bloody yanks, ya never can tell".

Clive was smiling wickedly, baring dirty teeth, through his sallow complexion. The man he persisted in calling Dean simply stared back at him with those icy, cold eyes. They spoke more words than a thousand screaming voices. Clive's smile quickly faded.

"Hmmm," he mused carelessly. "I forgot 'ow 'ospitable you could be".

Dean stood like an angry statue. He spoke in his familiar, southern American drawl. "Why are ye here, Clive? Do ye have anythin' of interes' to tell me, or should I jus' kill ye now and go back to bed?"

The lady in the bed stirred but did not wake. Clives eyes fell upon her momentarily, and a sinister grin spread across his lips. He quickly looked back, when he heard Dean's knuckles crack like splintering would.

He smiled. "Well, Dean, 'ow about the whereabouts of the man who ruined your life".

Dean momentarily faltered. His eyes flickered. A twitch at his mouth ended, and he leapt forwards with anger and curiosity, taking up his violent position again, pressing Clive against the hollow wall. Clive gave a little yelp. A shadow passed through the curtains and lingered upon Dean's pained expression.

"You're lyin'!" he raged.

"Jesus...I swear!" Clive stammered awakwardly.

Distant. One million poisoned spears stuck in Dean. Pain. His body felt weak. Numb. Voices drifted through his mind like a coffin. Death. He was dead inside. A flicker of life, like the lighting of a candle. He fell away like a lost doll. Stale air washed over him like a blanket of regret. The real world was gone. No more hurt... no more hurt. Dean didn't hear the triumphant jests of Clive. He didn't hear the clamour as the woman awoke and recoiled at the stranger. His vision blurred. Slipping like a blade into a chair, he saw two faces. So old, so old now, not how he wanted to remember them. What would _he _look like now?

Dean's eyes finally resurfaced, along with his soul, falling upon Clive. "Where?"


	4. The Sleeper

The factory was in full flow now. Men and women rushed through the dirty industrial sight hurriedly. Sparks flew into the air like stars. The grinding of metal echoed through the dense concrete wall, shuddering with effort. Yellow hard hats illuminated the usually grey and dull area. Above the main floor, pacing on the walkways, the work was just as hard. Everywhere there was an order, a reply, a cry of frustration or woe. The sunlight barely penetrated through the dusty cracks, which were pretending to be windows, and a grim dim ensued. A working day.

Dean entered this place warily. His cold eyes searched everywhere. He returned an unfavourable gaze with a darker look, and the workers quickly learnt to stay away from him. The cowboy prowled amongst the various iron works, the flying sparks spraying up fireworks in front of his eyes. The tap of his boots was unheard through the immense noise. He brooded. It was like a vision. Surreal.

From the front of the factory, an extremely broad, bordering on fat, man with a black beard and wearing a loose checkered shirt, recognised Dean and beckoned the cowboy over with a wave of a large hand. Dean obliged and stalked over casually, his brown jacket hugging his skin. The man led him through a small door into a separate, abandoned part of the factory, just as big. Their footseps echoed around the iron structure. The factory work slowly dulled to mere background noise.

The man spoke as they walked. "This is just a part time gig really, till I get settled properly. Clive's a good mate, he always sends me the – uhm – reliable sort".

Dean walked silently at his side. He hated conversations.

They reached a large filing cabinet at the end of the room. The man searched amongst the names.

He pointed to one. "That's me. Harry Rose". He gave Dean a stern look. "Now you would do best to forget that name unless you ever need to see me again. Understood?"

Dean stared back nonchalantly. "I think so, Michael bloody Corleone. Now stop treatin' me like a fool. I ain't gonna go shootin' myself in the foot or ass if that's what ye think".

Rose seemed a little taken aback. He glanced around nervously before shooting Dean the dirtiest look he could muster. "You ought to remember who you're speakin' to, _mister _Winchester".

With a look as cold as the thoughts that ran through his mind, Dean took a step closer to Rose. "I thought ye said I should forget yer name, Rose bud?"

"Yeah – well – whatever!" Rose shot out, looking extremely flustered. "Now let's get to business".

He delved inside his personal draw and pulled out two objects. The first was a file, consisting of several pieces of paper, which he duly handed to Dean.

"This is everything you need to know about him," Rose explained, continuously glancing around. "Proof of identity, photograph, job, home address, family. Everything!"

Dean took them and flicked through hurriedly until his eyes landed upon the photograph. His jaw twisted and quivered. The paper began to crinkle in his rage filled hands. That face! That face! It was like looking at Satan himself. Dean quickly closed the file and took a deep breath. Rose was surveying him quizzically.

"Right – uhm – okay then. And this is what you'll need" From his other hand, Rose revealed a small, shiny, silver revolver and held it up. "I trust you know how to use one of these, cowboy?"

Dean snatched the gun away and casually snapped open the barrel, inspecting the six bullets inserted in each chamber, just lying in wait. He span the barrel for show, before slamming in back in place and cocking it right in front of Rose's face. The builder forced a smile before nodding.

"Well – that's good I suppose," he conceeded meekly, as Dean stuffed the revolver into his waistband, pulling his jacket over it, and collecting the papers. "But that isn't the important thing though is it, Texan?"

Stopping, Dean turned and looked hard at the man. "And what is?"

"Can you do it? That's the question," Rose smiled cruelly. "The thought's always somewhere. It hides in the back of your mind until the last moment, until the time comes to pull the trigger. When you first see there face it's different. You're full of rage, but is that enough. Am I a killer? Now –" he sighed, " – that really is the question you should be asking yourself".

Dean's head remained perfectly still. His eyes flickered momentarily. He pulled the gun from his waistband and admired it, caressing its smooth texture. All he could see in his head was one mans face. "Not a problem, flower," he said softly.

He walked away, the sliver of light missing him by inches.

"What's the weather like in Texas this time of year?" Rose called after him.

His boots halted. Dean did not turn. He could hear the man's breathing, a dozen or so yards behind him. He rubbed his brittle hands together. The air was so thin.

"Cold," he murmured. "Always cold".

"Is that the weather or you?" asked Rose, lounging against the cabinet, his arms folded.

Still without turning, Dean answered. "You decide". He began once more to leave. His boots rattled the metal as he went.

"I'll see you back here. I know it!" shouted Rose. "You're no killer! I can tell!"

But Dean did not stop this time. Instead he continued to slope off through the factory, leaving a trail of suspicious glances in his wake. The millions of sparks burnt a fire in his eyes. Rose's eyes travelled through his mind like splinters. He tried to supress them. _I am a killer, I am a killer_, he told himself over and over again. The metal gun bit into the base of his spine. This was it. What would life do to him after this? Was there much point in carrying on? They would have the peace they deserved... deserved... derserved. The word just did not seem right as it flickered through his mind painfully.

He emerged from the factory into the cold autumn air. The dull, industrial landscape hung before his eyes. The mist settled over him. He was veiled as he stalked off through the city streets in search of... a moment in life that makes a man what he ultimately dies as. The sleeper.


	5. The Suit

The Suit

**The Suit**

His palms felt moist.

The hum of life fluttered on by, the strobe lighting of reality, as Dean stood, a statue. His eyes were barely open, still stinging from the rush of the cold morning air. But attracted no eyes. No curious glances in his direction. He was nothing but a smart suit. He was nothing but middle class. Nobody paid him heed.

"Dean!" a voice called from latest crowd of shoppers. "You in there?"

A smile flickered across Dean's lips, and he stepped out from his hiding place, leaving the shadows of the photo booth to make himself seen. Briefcase. Scowl. Leather jacket. Perfection. Dean had no idea why this man liked him. It must have been the suit.

He heard the jovial tune being whistled long before the hulking frame of Bobby appeared in the entranceway, jangling his car keys. He wore his one and only suit as though it were poisonous, everything hanging ungainly off him, with his tie caught in his belt; his grey hair was covered by a tatty baseball cap, underneath which his large face and yellow teeth sat. The man absolutely reeked of cigars, but Dean could hardly complain about that. Everyone needs a wife.

Bobby shuffled his way into the entrance, allowing the automatic door to close with a loud bang, and strolled over to his charge, looking around at the establishment with a disappointed frown upon his face, judging each and every shopper with his old eyes.

"Morning, sunshine," he sneered.

Dean replied with a slight inclination of his head, before returning to what was now his second cigarette of the morning. Glancing around the entrance to the mall, there were dozens of other such individuals; shielding from the cold in the depths of their ash, waiting for the inevitable adventure inside. Bobby approached the corner where Dean was slumped.

"How're feeling, twinkletoes?" Bobby asked, laying a greasy mit on Dean's shoulder.

Dean shrugged. "Fine". He shook the hand away in a vain attempt to remain disdainful.

Bobby was still staring around the entranceway at the flow of humanity, a look of horrified concern on his face, as he reached into his pocket and removed a small and tatty brown paper bag. Dean felt his eyes widen and his body shiver.

"What's in that?"

Bobby screwed his nose, not looking fondly at what he held. "Have a guess."

"I don't know, sir," said Dean impatiently, "That's why I asked."

Still looking uncomfortable, Bobby emptied the contents of a bag into the Dean's open palm; a clear, small pot rattled and rolled out, which Dean snapped up hurriedly and inserted into his coat pocket. What was coming next? He knew it, and Bobby surely knew it as well. He watched as a young woman pushed a pram and child into the shop.

Sighing, Bobby queried, "Those things aren't working are they?"

"They're fine".

"Nightmares stopped then?"

Dean said nothing. He could feel Bobby's sage eyes studying every orifice of his body. Criticising. Judging. Bobby leaned back against the wall next to Dean and folded his arms, so that the two of them almost looked like, from a distance ... friends. Dean glanced up from his palm, following Bobby's gaze. To the children. To the pensioners. All he could see was a forest of permed hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, a mirage of tired and infant faces, purses clutched in their hands ... accusing him ...

"No."

Bobby barely even acknowledged the response, with only a rasping breath escaping from his lips. His eyes were fixated on something amongst the hum of civilastion in that mall entrance. The children? The parents? The sound and colours of life? Dean could taste the scent of plastic bags down deep in his throat. It was the smell of humanity. The smell of normality. Even with his eyes closed tight, there could be no mistaking where he was. It conjured up images from his past ... from his childhood ... from his life ... happier times ...

But where was Bobby looking?

A woman. Blonde. Perhaps thirty years of age with tired eyes and weary features. She stood almost directly across from the wrapped up tightly in a ragged green shawl, clutching a bundle in her arms. Where had Dean seen that face before? Her eyes were a pale blue, a cold and distant shade of the ocean that were gazing down at the object in her arms.

A baby.

The flash of pink flesh shone across Dean's gaze. The shimmering of saliva. Those small and sleepy eyes of a newborn infant. Dean felt a familiar pang in the depths of his stomach watching the infant squirm and smile. If only...

Bobby's gaze has not shifted once, but Dean noticed that the brown paper bag that he had continued to hold in his hand had been screwed tightly into a vicious ball, and was now being sent fluttering down to the filthy marble floor below. Beneath the warmth and innocence of old age there was something lingering around Bobby that suggested a hidden malice, a darkness that never usually reered its ugly head ... until times such as this.

Very slowly, the old man reached into his pocket and brought out a small scrap of paper. It was a photograph. Bobby still refused to take his eyes away from the mother and child, as he held the tiny pictutre out on his palm so that Dean could see it. Dean allowed his gaze to fall upon the photograph ...

"Take a close look at what you can see in that picture, son," Bobby whispered with a hiss. " Take a good, hard look ... and then look at that sweetheart over there with 'er young 'un ..."

But Dean's eyes never left the photograph held before him.

"Take a look at that girl..."

Dean could see the darkness of his past.

" ... And remember what you're doing this for..."

And with this, the old man turned on his heel and marched from the mall, leaving Dean alone. He closed his eyes and let the darkness envelop him.


	6. Sam Winchester

_Los Angeles…_

The glimmer of light beats out into the sky of perpetual night. A beacon against the shadows; some hope against the darkness. Laced with beauty, filled with joy, Los Angeles stands as a pinnacle of all. The odour of humanity wafts through the air … a perfume … a poison? Beauty cannot transcend evil, cannot pull a veil over the corruption, which seeps through every pore, through every possible crack in the very fabric of Western society. Yet we ignore it; we set our narcissistic gaze upon the light, the bright and the handsome. It is gentle on our eyes, and on our fragile minds. To look upon the truth of life – the darkness and deceit, the vanity and arrogance – would be to look into a mirror of one's soul. The soul. A place where no one should delve willingly. The soul. The blackest region of our thoughts. The soul…

Why should we remain in front of that mirror? Facing its judgement? No man, no woman, no creature on this earth desires to hear their own failure. Tell us we are beautiful and tell us we are just; tell us we are worthy of this world, and not a nameless face. One in six billion, we are nothing but blots on this mighty earth. We seek comfort in the misfortune of others, all the while seeking for eyes to be upon us. The spotlight falls upon me … and now I am a star …

_This is Los Angeles…_

The eye gazed out across the City of Angels, unblinking and unmoved. It stung to look; yet the allure was too much. The smell of corruption was pungent even from here. So powerful, a ghostly image of humanity, the city was pale against the moonlight. It was inviting, but also terrifying. A place to flee to, to hide away from the world until the end of time. Everyone was a star there. Everyone mattered. No one was special.

"Where are we going then, Sam?"

The vehicle jolted as it past over a crevice in the road, knocking Sam Winchester's head against the window softly and bringing him back to reality. His eyes had been fixed and dead, until the kindly voice had discovered him, alone with his thoughts. Blinking, Winchester peered through the gloom of the truck, until he could just make the beaming face of Silas, his elderly companion, smiling across at him. Every wrinkle, every crease, every speck of dust in the old man's face was filled with love. What do people do without someone to love them? We all take it for granted, having that reliable companion to comfort and hold us. A lover. A mother. A father. A brother. A sister. A wife. Only when they are gone does one truly become thankful for them; only when we know that never again will they caress our cheek gently with the back of their hand, or whisper softly into our ear. A wife. The centre of a man's world. To take such a thing away was to rip the spine from his back, or steal away his heart. Now Sam had Silas, not his mother, not his father … and not his wife. There was nothing left but to run … and never stop running…

"Where are we going then?"

There was no emotion in Sam's eyes, as he thought the same monotony that he had thought every day for the last…

"Into the city. Somewhere quiet."

The smile was enough. Silas never needed to say more; the connection between he and Sam had been forged over many years. Some might question the dourness, the uncommunicative nature of the billionaire, but Silas let him be. There the two of them sat, alone in the back of the truck, alone from the world. Their driver sat up front, saying nothing and hearing absolutely nothing. Three lonely and distant travellers on the road to oblivion. A pilgrimage into sanctuary. That was what Sam dreamed of: sanctuary, a place to call his home, a place to call his own, a place where the Winchester family name meant nothing. That was what Los Angeles would be to him; hundreds and thousands of faces, each one famous in its own right, each one loved in its own right. There would be no one to hound him daily, no one to pursue him. And no one to disturb his well-earned peace.

Sam fled to try and forget his past. He no longer wanted to live with the memories that clung to him like a haze of smoke. He wanted to forget those cold nights three years ago when he would awake suddenly, his heavy heart beating softly with the images of his parents still fresh in his mind. He longed to forget how he would turn slowly, the silk of the covers against his bare flesh, and reach out for something warm … something to hold on to …

_And there she was…_

Her scent was of perfection. Roses and flowers do not describe how a man feels about his true wife, and Sam was no different. He would caress her milky skin and bring her into his arms. He had thought then that he had finally stumbled into heaven, that he could say his final farewells to his father and brother, and advance into what was a new start, a new beginning, and an entirely new life. It takes less than a second though to snatch it all away. That's all it had taken, a single second, one raging inferno, one night, and it was all over. His love was over. Sam Winchester was over.

The Boulevard lay below, in the winding hills that led into Hollywood. Just one right turn was all it would take and his descent into anarchy would begin, his descent into sanctuary… his descent into forgetting it all. Then why wasn't the driver turning? Why weren't they now plunging down into the suburban valley, the concrete jungle? Sam watched closely as a trickle of perspiration ran along his arm, before dropping gently off the palm of his quivering hand and to the floor. The nerves had taken him yet again, as he looked inquisitively at Silas' unperturbed features. The old man cocked his eyebrow in a silent reply of confusion. Gently, Sam lent forward towards the driver's shielded compartment.

"Where are you going? This isn't the way."

He tapped softly against the wooden board, searching for some sign of life in there. There was movement, a dark shape shifting restlessly before the windshield. The shape's head moved ever so slightly to the left, and the faint outline of its features could be seen against the glare of the moon. The lips parted slowly.

"It is tonight."

The icy voice sent a chill through the truck, as Silas shot a black look in Sam's direction. Before either of them could move, the truck rumbled to a rapid halt, throwing Sam against the wooden board, rocking his entire stunned frame. Something rough fell over him and he heard the gruff and winded howl from Silas' throat. Everything was in shadow, with the lights snapping on and off, severely hindering Sam's sight. His head knocked against something metallic and then… everything went still…

The stench of leather filled the air, the pungent odour smacking against his lips. Sam opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness; he bit down hard and found his teeth around the material covering the seat. He spat viciously and rolled away; rubbing his temples to shake away the grogginess that still lingered between his eyes. Glancing over he noticed a silent figure, tweed ensemble and all, lying awkwardly across the opposite seat. It was Silas. Sam went to move towards his companion, but a crackling burn shot up his left ankle, and he slumped back down to the floor once again. Then he saw it…

_The crimson mask…_

"Sorry, man."

Silas was lying on his back, his arm bent behind his head, awkwardly. There was a coating of scarlet across his face, the mask over his hidden eyes. He wasn't moving. Sam felt his stomach churn, a sickening knot against his insides to see his friend in such a way. Still his ankle throbbed, but he managed to reach across to his butler anyway. His hands were shaking as he felt the motionless body before him. Gazing down at his own hands, he saw and he smelled the copper tang of the blood originating from there. What was that faint moisture in Sam's eyes? Tears. For the first time in so many years, he was weeping over the bloodied figure beneath him. Through the haze of sorrow he saw the broken glass, the bloodstained window bearing the scars of its collision with Silas.

_Thunder from the ground…_

The rumble in the distance brought Sam back to reality, as he looked away from the gruesome vision before him and out through the broken window. He winced in the harsh light, blinding him momentarily. Shielding his eyes, he peered into the night. Something stirred in the gloom. An apparition. A demon. He released his hand from Silas' bloody grasp… and dragged his own weary frame towards the car door. Clutching at his fragile ankle, he kicked at the handle with his free leg; once, twice, and finally it broke ajar. The warm air kissed his face as a greeting, but the distant lights grew ever closer. Tentatively he stepped out into the night… but his eyes fell back into the truck, the shadows flashing by his eyes. There is nothing quite like staring into the eyes of a dead man… of a dead friend…

"I'll see you again."

With that, Sam rolled from the truck and onto the autumn ground amongst the golden leaves. Silas' pale face was snatched away from him, drawn back inside the vehicle. Sam crawled backwards on his elbows, shaking with exertion, grimacing at the guttural pants heaving from his chest.

The truck was on its side, with its front end crumpled. A faint fire was flickering from the surrounding wreckage. A funeral pyre against the night sky. The mechanical thunder struck the ground once more, and Sam glanced over at the approaching light. It was almost upon him now. He found his place against a rotting tree in the undergrowth, hidden by the bushes, dripping with moss. Hi eyes narrowed.

The demise of a hero. The end of an era. One more loss in the Winchester family. The cursed name. The haunted. The lost. Farewell, old friend.

_"Sam, don't be afraid."_


End file.
